


write your story (on my heart)

by fallingintodivinity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Impala Sex, Intercrural Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Stanford, Romance, Schmoop, Set at some nebulous time during the early seasons, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/pseuds/fallingintodivinity
Summary: Sam Winchester might have accidentally gone and fallen in love with his big brother. But he’s handling it. Mostly.





	write your story (on my heart)

 

It’s a beautiful day out, bright and warm, and Sam slouches comfortably in the seat of the Impala as Dean drives them south on Highway 1 toward Monterey for a hunt. Lazily, he rolls his shoulders and tilts his head back, eyes half-lidded. The California sunshine slanting through the window is warm on his skin, noonday sun high in a bright cloudless sky. He feels boneless, languid; almost drunk with the heat and the purring of the car’s engine thrumming softly through his bones, lulling him into an almost-doze. He yawns widely, stretching his legs as far as they can go in the footwell of the car.

Next to him, Dean looks content, whistling softly with one hand resting on the wheel and the other slung over the back of the seat, fingers idly toying with the curling ends of Sam’s hair. On their right, the endless, perfect blue of the Pacific stretches out as far as the eye can see, sunlight reflecting crazily off the water in a million glittering facets.

Sam yawns again, leans down and snags the half-drunk bottle of Gatorade he’d left rolling around in the footwell. He slouches back into his seat and unscrews the cap, letting his mind drift. As he lifts the bottle to his lips, his gaze wanders idly over his brother’s hand on the wheel, strong and broad-fingered, wanders up Dean’s bare arm, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in deference to the summer heat.

Sam’s eyes trail further up, over the collar of Dean’s shirt, top two buttons open and exposing just a hint of his chest, up to his brother’s face, long thick lashes over bright green eyes, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of Dean’s nose that Sam secretly adores. His eyes linger on his brother’s full lips, pursed slightly as Dean whistles tunelessly.

Unbidden, the thought pops into his mind: of leaning over, sliding his hand over Dean’s lightly stubbled jaw and turning his brother’s face toward him. He can see _exactly_ how it goes in his mind’s eye, Dean’s lips parting a little as he turns toward Sam, startled; Sam ducking his head to close the distance between them and pressing his lips to Dean’s, kissing him slow and thorough. Slipping his tongue into the welcoming wet heat of Dean’s mouth; the lazy sweep of long, dusky lashes over freckled golden skin as Dean’s eyelids flutter shut and he groans into Sam’s mouth –

Next to him, Dean shifts in his seat and Sam abruptly, guiltily jerks back to reality. His throat closes up in sheer terror and he chokes on a mouthful of his drink, spraying Gatorade all over the dashboard. Dean jumps and turns his head to stare at him, looking startled, as Sam succumbs to a full-blown coughing fit.

He hasn’t let himself indulge in _those_ particular fantasies for a while, had thought he’d finally gotten them under control. God, his subconscious can be such an asshole sometimes. Sam grimaces, eyes watering, and scrubs a hand across his face. It feels like some of the Gatorade might have gone up his nose.

“Sam?”

He waves a hand vaguely in Dean’s direction. “’s okay,” he wheezes though another fit of coughing.

Dean thumps him on the back, hard. “Jesus, Sammy, _breathe_.”

By the time Sam can actually manage the task of breathing again, he’s gone all the way past guilt, taken a right turn at panic and is deep in the throes of ‘ _holy shit, Dean can never,_ ever _find out’_. He makes a face and thunks his head gently against the window. Dean’s hunched over in the driver’s seat, rooting around with one hand for something under the seat.

“Hey,” says Dean.

“Hmm?” says Sam distractedly, still frantically trying to figure out how he’s going to hide something this big from Dean. He’s always been shit at lying to Dean, ever since they were kids.

Lying to _himself_ , though? Apparently, Sam’s bloody good at that. Good enough that he’d buried this particular secret so far down, had hidden it deep enough that he’d thought it was gone for good, and now it’s coming back to bite him in the ass.

“Hey. _Sam_.”

The ratty T-shirt – one of Dean’s old ones that had inexplicably gone missing a couple of weeks ago, Sam remembers Dean turning their motel room upside down looking for it, to no avail – that Dean fished up from under the seat hits him in the face and Sam grabs at it with a muffled yelp. Dean tosses a bottle of water into Sam’s lap, then points at the dashboard.

“Sammy, you’d better get every single drop of Gatorade off my baby, or you’re gonna be walking the rest of the way there.”

 

***

 

In the face of his fucked-up, unbrotherly… _attraction_ to Dean, Sam has decided to be grateful for the small things that _do_ go smoothly in his life.

Like, for example, the hunt in Monterey, where they waste the spirit before it has time to do much more than toss a shoe rack at them, followed by a dresser. The dresser had smashed into the wall and shattered a mirror, one of the shards slicing a shallow cut into Sam’s cheek, and his left hand feels like it probably has a couple of splinters in it from where he’d put his hand on the wreckage of the dresser, but other than that, he’s unhurt and Dean doesn’t even have a scratch on him. Sam definitely considers this one a win.

After the spirit’s gone, leaving Sam sprawled on the floor of the abandoned house where they’d found it, Dean’s immediately practically in Sam’s lap, patting him down to check for injuries then grabbing his face in both hands and turning it this way and that, squinting critically at the cut on his cheek, slowly oozing blood.

“’m fine, Dean,” Sam says, batting at his brother’s hands to distract himself from Dean kneeling over him, so close that Sam can feel the warmth radiating from his body, cupping Sam’s face with broad, callused hands. Dean’s lips are inches from his, and Sam realizes with a bit of a shock that he’s holding his breath. He clears his throat and tries to breathe normally.

It’s not like this is unusual, even; Dean’s always been a little overprotective and him being all over Sam to check for injuries after a hunt is pretty much par for the course. Sam knows he’s the same way, too – they’ve both been injured badly on hunts before, to the point where Sam’s got some kind of almost Pavlovian need to just _touch_ Dean after a hunt, feel his brother warm and alive and whole under his hands.

It’s just that now – after his little daydream in the Impala – Sam’s a lot more _aware_ of all the touching. But he’s handling it. Mostly.

There’re a couple of drops of sweat nestling in the hollow at the base of Dean’s throat, and Sam abruptly has a strong and _completely insane_ urge to lick them away. He turns his head away, pretending he just wants his brother to stop fussing over the cut on his face. “I’m fine,” he says again.

“You’ll live,” Dean confirms cheerfully, seemingly in a good mood from Sam not getting himself killed, and, thankfully, oblivious to Sam staring at his throat like some kind of psycho. He shifts to one side – off Sam’s lap, thank god – and sits on the floor cross-legged, taking Sam’s hand in his, palm up, and starts picking the splinters out of Sam’s hand.

Sam stares down at the top of Dean’s dark blond head and is suddenly overtaken by a rush of overwhelming affection for his brother, who, though he drives Sam out of his mind sometimes, has always been there for him, the one bright, true constant in Sam’s life, his north star. He laughs a little to himself at the sappiness of that thought, and then laughs a little harder at imagining Dean’s reaction were he to ever voice it out loud.

Dean glances up and gives him a deeply suspicious look. “What’re you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” says Sam.

 

***

 

After Dean’s finally satisfied that he’s gotten all the splinters out of Sam’s hand, they drive to a nearby motel for the night.

The skinny young man at the reception desk looks them over interestedly. “King or two queens?” he asks.

“Dude. We’re _brothers!_ ” Dean exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in what Sam feels is an unnecessarily dramatic manner.

“Whatever you say, man. Chill.” The motel clerk hands over a set of keys, which Dean stomps off with, grumbling under his breath. Sam sighs and follows behind him. No matter how many times it happens – and it does happen, with a bizarre kind of regularity – Dean always gets all hung up on it whenever they get mistaken for something-other-than-brothers, which means that Dean’s going to be even more determined than usual to pick up a girl tonight.

Sam chews on his lower lip, leaning on the cracked green motel wallpaper opposite the door of their room, one leg kicked up on the wall behind him, as Dean inserts the key in the door and turns it. Sam’s never liked it when his brother goes off to spend the night with some stranger, for reasons he’s never cared to examine too closely. He’s always told himself that it’s because Dean deserves better than that, deserves someone who actually _cares_ about him rather than a string of faceless lovers, but he’s starting to realize with a sinking feeling that he knows _exactly_ who he thinks that someone should be, and – yeah, okay, stopping _that_ train of thought _right fucking now_.

They head out to a bar that evening, hustle a little pool; not enough to piss anyone off but they do make enough to ensure they’re good for the next few days. Dean wanders off – presumably back to the bar – while Sam stays by the pool table finishing the dregs of his beer. He makes a face as he tastes it – he’s left it too long and now it’s warm. Good thing there wasn’t much left anyway. He glances over at the bar, looking for Dean, hoping he can signal his brother to bring back another beer for him.

He spots Dean right away and his brother’s at the bar alright, but he’s not alone. Dean’s got his arms around a blonde girl; the girl’s back is to Sam, which gives him a perfect view of Dean’s face and Sam shouldn’t be staring, is going to look away _any moment now_ but – Dean’s eyes are half-lidded and his lips are on the girl’s but he’s looking _straight at Sam_ , something intense and hungry, almost desperate in his gaze.

Their eyes meet, catch and Sam feels like he’s drowning all of a sudden, all of the air sucked from his lungs. Lightning-quick, Dean’s expression shifts and there’s a split second of something that looks almost like panic, then Sam blinks and Dean’s expression settles into something smug, predatory, gaze resting heavy on Sam almost like a challenge. Sam’s heart jumps into his throat and he’s trapped in that smouldering gaze, unable to turn away, cock half-hard and gut churning with jealousy of that damned girl.

When he can breathe again, Sam slowly, deliberately turns away from Dean and walks out of the bar. He makes his way back to the motel, cursing himself for being ten times a fool, furious with himself, heartsick and miserable and absolutely not thinking about Dean in bed with his conquest of the evening, naked and sweaty and gorgeous.

Back at the motel, he goes into the bathroom, turns the water on, steps into the shower and takes his still half-hard cock in hand. He jerks himself roughly, mind full of that hungry look on Dean’s face, almost as if – as if for that moment, he’d wanted Sam the same way Sam wants him.

Sam comes embarrassingly quickly, Dean’s name spilling from his lips and shame twisting low and hot in his belly.

 

***

 

The next day, Sam finds a hunt in San Francisco and they make the easy drive up. It’s a water spirit hanging around Fisherman’s Wharf of all things, terrorizing the tourists and occasionally pulling a stray tourist into the water. It tries to grab Dean too – of _course_ it does, because Sam’s annoyingly perfect big brother seems to have that effect on everyone, be it grabby girls or grabby spirits. No, Sam isn’t bitter at all, whatever gave you _that_ idea.

Dean takes a spirit-assisted header off the pier and splashes into the water yelling at the top of his lungs. Sam promptly follows his brother off the pier and grabs Dean’s arm – the one not currently in the surprisingly strong grasp of the spirit – wrenching him back before the spirit can drag him into the depths and drown him.

After it’s all over, they crawl back up onto the pier, wet and bruised and exhausted. Dean appears to have sprained his wrist where the spirit grabbed him so Sam’s the first one out of the water, pulling Dean up after him. Up on the pier it’s pandemonium, panicked tourists running around shrieking and when Sam sees the telltale flashing lights from cop cars he makes a hasty exit, Dean in tow. Dean pulls out the Impala’s keys from his pocket, winces at the twinge in his wrist and very reluctantly hands the keys to Sam to drive them back to their motel.

Back at the motel, Sam binds Dean’s wrist up tightly with an ACE bandage but there’s not much more either of them can do but wait until Dean’s wrist heals. Dean won’t be able to drive for a few days and there’s no way in hell Sam’s going to let him hunt until he’s healed up, so they end up just hanging out in San Francisco for a few days.

They go back to Fisherman’s Wharf (now spirit-free) and eat overpriced clam chowder out of bread bowls and walk along the pier, where they lean side-by-side on the railing and watch the sea lions. Dean wrinkles his nose and complains about the smell.

“Seriously?” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, man. How is this worse than the time we were covered in ghoul guts?”

Dean thinks for a moment then concedes the point, grinning. “You were bitching about your hair smelling like it for a _week_ ,” he says, and starts to snicker.

Sam makes a face. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Serves you right for keeping that Disney princess haircut, Sammy,” says Dean and smirks, turning to tug playfully on the ends of Sam’s hair with one hand, and when had Dean gotten so close, anyway?

“Uh,” says Sam eloquently, and stares down at Dean’s lips, which are _right there_ and parted slightly in surprise, as if Dean hadn’t noticed how close they’d been standing, either. There’s a slight flush across Dean’s high cheekbones and this weird moment between them is stretching out way too long, definitely moving into the realm of _awkward_ and Sam needs to say something, break the tension before he does something he’s going to regret.

“You love my Disney princess haircut,” he rasps hoarsely and, god help him, Dean’s blush _deepens_ , freckles standing out stark against the pink on his cheeks and damn it, his big brother is stupidly sexy and Sam is completely and totally fucked.

Dean licks his lips nervously and Sam chokes back a groan. He is not, _not_ going to pop an inopportune boner here in front of a couple of thousand tourists and a bunch of sea lions. He clears his throat just as Dean says, voice strained, “sure, keep telling yourself that,” and Sam doesn't even remember what they were talking about in the first place.

They’re saved from this bog of extreme awkwardness that they’ve gotten themselves mired in by the ringing of Sam’s cellphone. It turns out to be a wrong number, but Sam’s so grateful to the woman who called anyway that he could have kissed her.

The next day, they walk up Lombard Street during the day then pack some sandwiches and drive up to Twin Peaks in the evening. They sit side-by-side on the soft, slightly damp grass biting into their sandwiches, Dean close enough that his thigh is pressing against Sam’s, and the entire city spread out below them, twinkling lights coming on in the buildings far below while the setting sun paints the sky in vivid hues of yellows and pinks. It’s beautiful, and tranquil, and a little romantic. Sam tries his best not to think about that last part.

The thing is, the past few days, Sam’s been caught in a kind of pleasurable agony of having his brother all to himself, Dean’s smiles only for him and Dean’s attention focused solely on him. Dean hasn’t even tried to hook up with anyone, whether because his wrist’s still hurting or because of some other reason, Sam’s not sure, and Sam knows that this perfect little bubble he’s been living in isn’t going to last, but he wants – he _wants_ –

“Whatcha thinking about?” Dean asks through a huge bite of his sandwich, nudging Sam in the side with his elbow. A couple of crumbs fall out of his mouth and onto Sam’s jeans.

“Gross, Dean,” Sam says, and shoves a napkin at his brother.

“Stop fussing, bitch,” Dean says, but grabs the napkin out of Sam’s hand.

“Jerk,” replies Sam affectionately.

 

***

 

Sam knows _exactly_ when Dean’s wrist starts feeling better because he starts dragging Sam out to bars again. They hit a whole string of dive bars where Dean flirts with a different girl each night, and then one night it’s a guy, tall and dark-haired, and it’s even worse then. Sam knows Dean occasionally hooks up with guys, but knowing it is different from actually _seeing_ it happening in front of him, hitting him hard and visceral like a punch to the gut.

Despite himself, he feels his hands curl into fists, jealousy tying his stomach into a hard, cold knot, and he can’t – can’t sit here and watch this. The guy has no right. Dean deserves better, someone who doesn’t just want his brother’s pretty face, but also wants to know the person beneath. Dean, his brave, loyal to a fault, would-rather-let-a-wendigo-chew-his-arm-off-than-talk-about-his-feelings big brother. Sam – Sam could – he shuts that thought down, hard, before his idiotic, traitorous brain can complete it.

He wants to go over, haul the guy away from Dean and punch him in his stupid face.

Instead, he turns away, heads all the way over to the other end of the bar. Drinking himself into oblivion – or at least into enough of a stupor that he can silence the tiny voice in his head screaming at him to go over to Dean and drag him back to the safety of their motel room – sounds like a good plan.

He’s just gotten started on his brilliant plan when a guy who looks to be around his age approaches him and offers to buy him a drink. Sam blinks at him, looks him over. The guy’s pretty tall, just a hair shorter than Sam, blond (couple of shades lighter than Dean), not bad looking (Dean’s better-looking). Sam accepts the drink and the company; is feeling reckless and after a few more beers, is warming up to the idea of a night with this guy – Jim, he says his name is – then suddenly Dean is _right there_ , stepping between Sam and his prospective one night stand.

Dean wraps one hand around Sam’s arm, gripping hard enough that Sam can feel his blunt nails digging into skin, and glares at Jim.

Sam blinks. When did Dean get here? He looks around for the guy whom Dean was flirting with, puzzled.

While Sam’s distractedly peering around the bar, he hears Dean telling Jim that Sam’s drunk, and that Dean’s going to take him home.

He tunes back into the conversation just in time to hear Jim ask, “ – who the hell are you?”

“His boyfriend,” Dean says shortly.

“…what?” says Sam.

Jim’s eyes flick from Dean to Sam, then back. “He didn’t say he had a boyfriend.”

Sam opens his mouth again.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Back off, man,” he snaps at Jim, hand tightening on Sam’s arm.

Jim holds both hands up, eyeing Dean warily. “Yeah, alright. I’m going.” He gives Dean and Sam one last dirty look, then storms out of the bar.

Sam’s still gaping as Dean releases his arm only for long enough to toss down some cash on the bar to cover Sam’s last beer, then grabs his wrist and drags him out of the bar. They’re halfway back to the motel before either of them says anything.

“’m not that drunk,” Sam begins tentatively.

“I know,” says Dean, and promptly clams up again.

There’s an awkward silence for the rest of the walk back to the motel. Dean’s hand stays circling Sam’s wrist the entire way.

 

***

 

The next day, by mutual unspoken agreement, they pack up all their belongings and get back on the road again. Dean’s wrist is more or less fully healed and he’s driving them south, wan early morning sunlight filtering in through the car windows.

Sam darts a couple of quick glances over at Dean but his brother is silent and tense, grip tight on the wheel. Well. Looks like they’re not talking about what happened the previous evening, then. He surreptitiously studies Dean’s sharp profile and sighs, realizing resignedly that the hollow, gnawing feeling in his chest when he looks at Dean is never going to go away because damn it, he’s so fucking in love with his big brother.

To Sam’s surprise, it’s Dean who breaks the silence between them first.

“So, Sammy,” Dean says. “Never knew you were into guys.” He’s staring straight ahead, eyes on the road, mouth a thin tight line.

Sam starts, guiltily snapping his eyes away from Dean. “Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“I. Uh. Well, a few times, when I was at Stanford – ” Sam stops. “Wait. Why do _you_ care, anyway?”

Dean’s mouth snaps firmly shut. There’s a faint flush creeping up his high cheekbones. Sam stares at him incredulously.

“You’re right,” Dean says shortly. “None of my business. Forget it.” He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“ _You_ sleep with guys,” Sam says accusingly.

“Drop it, Sam,” Dean says, a warning tone in his voice.

Sam ignores him. “You started it.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, sounding irritated now, “and I’m ending it. Right now.”

Sam turns to scowl at his brother. “What the fuck,” he says. “ _You’re_ the one who cockblocked _me_ last night. What’s going on, man?”

“Won’t happen again,” Dean mutters, but he looks unhappy, little frown lines between his eyes that Sam wants to smooth away. Dean’s worrying his plump lower lip, corners of his mouth turned down. He mutters something under his breath that Sam doesn’t catch.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” says Dean.

Sam frowns. “What’s this really about, Dean?” he asks softly, but Dean remains stubbornly silent.

It can’t be about Sam sleeping with men, since he _knows_ Dean does too. Can’t be about the one night stands, either; they may not really be Sam’s style, normally, but Dean – well, actually…Sam casts his mind back, brow furrowed in thought. The past few days, Dean’s been flirting a lot, same as always, but he’s gone back to the motel with Sam at the end of every night. In fact, thinking back further…Sam realizes with slight shock that he doesn’t remember the last time Dean went out tomcatting. Maybe just the one time in Monterey a week ago, when Sam had left the bar they’d been playing pool in and Dean had stayed, arms around that blonde girl –

“Didn’t fuck her,” mumbles Dean, and Sam starts violently. He hadn’t realized he’d been thinking out loud. He fights back a blush as he recalls what he did after he'd left the bar; good thing he hadn’t started talking about _that_ part out loud. He doubts Dean wants to hear about Sam locking himself in their shared motel bathroom and jerking off to thoughts of his big brother.

Sam looks over at his brother. Dean’s staring hard at the road in front of them, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively as he swallows.

“Dean,” he starts, then doesn’t know how to continue. There’s something teasing at the barest corner of his mind; something that feels a bit like edification, a bit like hope.

Dean turns his head to glance at him, and Sam licks his lips nervously. Dean’s gaze drops to Sam’s mouth like he can’t quite help it, throat working, and the tiny sliver of hope in Sam’s heart grows. Dean bites out a curse and snaps his gaze back to the road, jerking the wheel to straighten the Impala when he starts drifting out of his lane. He keeps one hand on the wheel and drops the other to tap a nervous rhythm on his denim-clad thigh.

Sam takes a deep breath, and makes up his mind.

“Dean,” he says. “Look, man – you’ve got to tell me if I’m reading you wrong, okay – ”

He reaches across the space between them, slowly so Dean can pull away if he wants to. Dean glances quickly at him, uncertainty plain on his face, but doesn’t move.

Sam puts his hand over Dean’s – the one resting on Dean’s thigh – and laces their fingers together.

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean’s staring straight ahead, hand trembling a little in his, and Sam’s hands don’t feel all that steady either. “I can’t – I don’t have the right to ask you for this.”

Sam’s heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his throat. “You haven’t asked for anything,” he says. “And even if you did, I…I can’t think of a single thing you could ask of me that isn’t already yours.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat at Sam’s words, his fingers tightening around Sam’s. As the traffic in front of them slows from a crawl to a complete standstill, Dean hits the brakes and turns quickly toward Sam, his free hand coming off the wheel to grab a fistful of Sam’s shirt and reel Sam in.

Dean’s stubble is rough on his skin, his lips firm and warm and wet. Sam’s mouth parts on a gasp and then Dean’s tongue is in his mouth, licking insistently at him, and Sam _can’t get enough_. He lets his brother’s hand go so he can grasp at Dean’s broad shoulders, trying to pull him closer, the fabric of Dean’s shirt bunching and sliding under his questing fingers, and god, he’s half-hard already just from this, just from kissing Dean, and he wants _moremoremore_ –

Someone behind them leans on their car horn, and the sound makes Sam and Dean jump apart, breathing heavily. The traffic in front of them has cleared, and they’re holding up a whole line of impatient drivers.

Looking frazzled, Dean releases the brake and Sam’s thrown back against his seat as the car leaps forward. He glances over at his brother, concentrating hard on the road and looking flushed and rumpled and all too kissable, and Dean can’t possibly just mean to _keep driving_ after what they just started –

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam says desperately, and his voice has gone deep, husky with want.

Dean glances over, eyes wide. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving them shiny with spit. Suddenly breathless, Sam follows the movement, couldn’t have looked away even if a whole swarm of vengeful spirits had appeared right in front of the car at that very moment. He swallows convulsively and can’t help himself; he reaches one hand over, running his thumb over Dean’s full lower lip. Dean parts his lips and lets Sam's thumb slide into his mouth, sucking hard on it and Sam moans, head falling back against the seat, his legs spreading wider almost of their own accord as his cock swells to full hardness.

“Fuck, Dean.” Sam sucks in a breath, roughly palming his cock through his jeans. “You – you’re so – oh, _god_.” Dean’s mouth is hot and wet and Sam can’t help but think about how that mouth would feel around his cock, so fucking _perfect_ , and squeezes himself again hard, thumb just brushing the zipper of his jeans. Dean makes a muffled noise, eyes dark and hungry, and almost runs the car right off the road.

A cacophony of angry horns behind them has Dean turning the wheel sharply to pull the Impala back into his lane, knuckles white on the wheel. He swears under his breath and Sam hurriedly yanks his hand back, both hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs.

“Dean,” Sam grits out. “How long before we can stop?”

“Fuck.” Dean’s breathing hard like he just ran a marathon, glaring daggers at the slow-moving traffic in front of them. “ _Fuck_ , next exit’s coming up, half a mile – ”

Sam knuckles one fist into his straining cock just to relieve some of the pressure, so damned turned on he can’t think straight, and when Dean, still not looking at Sam, bites his lip and presses a palm hard into the matching bulge in his own jeans Sam almost comes right then and there. He swallows a whimper.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is strained; he’s staring fixedly ahead at the road in front of them. “If you come before I get my hands on you, I will fucking end you.”

“Oh. Oh god. Dean,” Sam says faintly. “Stop _talking_ about it. _Please_.”

After the longest ten minutes of Sam’s life, they finally pull into a deserted parking lot. Dean’s barely killed the engine before Sam’s out of the Impala, slamming the door too hard and it’s a testament to how badly Dean wants this too that he doesn’t even say a word about it; he’s out of the driver’s side just a split-second after Sam and striding around the side of the Impala.

They meet around the back of the car, practically crashing into each other with the frantic urgency to touch, to taste; trading messy open-mouthed kisses, noses bumping, teeth clicking together, eager hands clutching at shirts and sliding under fabric to roam over sun-warmed skin. Sam cups Dean’s face with both hands, rough stubble scraping against his palms as he devours Dean’s mouth.

Dean backs Sam up against the trunk of the Impala, fingers deftly unbuckling Sam’s belt as he licks demandingly into Sam’s mouth. “Dean, _Dean – ah –_ ” Sam groans embarrassingly loudly when Dean pops the button on Sam’s jeans with one hand, yanks his zipper down and gets his hand in Sam’s boxers to wrap firmly around his aching cock, precome already welling from the tip. A callused thumb swipes over the head of Sam’s cock, then Dean starts jerking him with one hand, the other fisted in the front of Sam’s shirt, and oh _god_ , he’s going to come in his jeans like a teenager and he hasn’t even managed to get his brother’s jeans off yet.

He grasps Dean’s shoulders and flips the both of them around so that he’s got Dean pressed up against the Impala, Dean still with one hand sliding over Sam’s cock and rutting desperately against Sam’s thigh, helpless thrusts of his hips, kiss-reddened lips parted in an ‘O’ as he pants for breath, flushed and disheveled and _so fucking pretty_. Sam tells him so in a rush, can’t help the words falling out of him, “god, Dean, been waiting for this for so long, you have no idea, so beautiful, sweetheart – ”

“’m not a girl, Sammy,” Dean grumbles breathlessly against Sam’s lips; might be trying to sound cross but it’s a halfhearted attempt at best. Sam slides his hands under his brother’s shirt, a slow drag of blunt nails up Dean’s back and Dean shivers, breath hitching on a broken moan.

“Better than any girl,” murmurs Sam, low and heated, “look at you, so fucking gorgeous, gonna make you feel so good, baby,” and ducks his head to kiss those full lips again, sweet and filthy; manhandles Dean so that his brother’s facing the Impala, his back pressed all along Sam’s front. Dean whines at the loss of contact, reaching down to rub his palm hard against the bulge in his jeans. Sam buries his nose in Dean’s neck, licks at the smooth skin, salt and sweat and the taste of Dean on his tongue; frantically fumbles the button of his brother’s jeans open with trembling fingers, gets the zip down and shoves Dean’s jeans and boxer briefs down all at once.

He manages to drag his hands off Dean for all of the two seconds it takes for him to push his own jeans and boxers down over his hips, then he’s got his arms back around his brother, one hand wrapped tight around Dean’s cock and the other rucking up Dean’s shirt and sliding over his flat belly. Dean’s hips snap forward, his cock hot and hard and _perfect_ in Sam’s grip, and god, Sam can’t imagine how he’s ever lived without this; he’s certainly not living without it after _this_.

He rubs his thumb over the velvety crown of Dean’s cock, smearing precome all over the head, then he’s pumping his brother’s cock in one fist, sliding his other hand down through the wiry curls at the base of Dean’s cock and lower still to cup his balls.

“Sam. _Sammy_ ,” Dean moans, low and wrecked, dragging the syllables out _Saaaaammy_ , arching back careless and wanton against Sam, head tipped back against Sam’s shoulder and mouth fallen open. He looks like a wet dream – a wet dream currently pushing his ass back against Sam’s cock, and Sam has never been more turned on in his life. He bites off a choked, desperate groan.

Dean’s arms come up and back to curl his fingers in Sam’s hair and tug demandingly. “Fuck, c’mon, need you, need your cock now, god, want you so bad Sammy – ”

“Yeah,” says Sam, throaty, “ _yeah,_ Dean,” and Dean sucks in a sharp breath and jerks against him as Sam sinks his teeth into the smooth skin just beneath the corner of his brother’s jaw. Sam’s almost mindless with it, the searing heat of Dean all pressed up against him from shoulder to thigh, the smell of Dean’s shampoo and the taste of his skin, both of them with their shirts sticking to them damp with sweat, jeans and underwear around their knees.

Sam’s got a bottle of lube somewhere in his duffle, buried under layers of clothes and a couple of books, but there’s no way in hell he’s letting go of Dean long enough to go look for it. Dean’s cock is heavy and full in his hand, slick with precome and flushed a rosy pink and Sam is never, ever letting go.

“Close up for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against the shell of Dean’s ear, making his brother shiver again, wrapping a palm around the curve of Dean’s hip and Dean gets with the program real quick, shoving his jeans down to his ankles and shifting his legs in so that his thighs are pressed together. Sam kisses the back of Dean’s neck again, slides a palm over his brother’s back; pushes gently and Dean goes eagerly, leaning down and bracing himself with both hands against the back of the Impala.

Finally, _finally_ , Sam pushes his aching cock into the tight hot space between Dean’s thighs, precome and sweat easing the way; braces himself with one hand on the Impala and jerks Dean’s cock with his other hand as he thrusts hard between Dean’s muscular thighs. Their bodies are slick with sweat, hands slipping a little on the Impala where they’re braced against it, and it’s _so fucking good_ , Dean writhing under him, hips pumping helplessly, not quite able to stifle the sweet, broken moans punched out of him in time with Sam’s thrusts.

“So perfect, babe, look at you, _god_ ,” he whispers hotly against the curve of Dean’s ear and Dean makes a ragged, incoherent sound, almost a sob, pushing urgent and needy into Sam’s fist, cock rock-hard beneath silky-smooth skin. He can’t get enough of Dean; licks the sweat off his skin and buries his face in short, spiky dark blond hair, sucks damp kisses into Dean’s neck hard enough to leave bruises. He can tell when Dean’s close, his brother’s hips stuttering, losing the rhythm they’ve built up.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Dean chants, his movements going jerky, then “god, _Sammy,_ ” and he’s coming with a choked cry, shooting wet and hot all over Sam’s fingers and the bumper of the Impala.

Four, five, six more thrusts and Sam feels his orgasm building inexorably, slow sweet burn coiling low in his belly. He comes so hard he almost blacks out, spurting hot and messy everywhere, over Dean’s thighs and the back of the Impala, mouthing ‘ _Dean’_ into his brother’s sweat-damp hair.

Dean slumps forward, full body poured bonelessly over the trunk of the Impala and Sam goes down with him, languid and dazed, curling himself snugly around his brother. Beneath him, Dean’s still breathing hard, sticky with sweat and limbs all sprawled out luxuriously. He’s leaning his forehead on Sam’s arm, one cheek pressed into the warm metal of the Impala.

After a few minutes, when his brain finally comes back online, Sam realizes he must be making it hard for Dean to breathe when Dean starts to squirm under him. He shifts to one side, staggering slightly on unsteady legs and leans on the car with one arm as his brother groans, pushes himself off the Impala with both hands and wobbles to his feet. He’s a wreck, hair all matted and sticking up in clumps, shirt half unbuttoned and stained from where he’d collapsed against the mess they’d made of the Impala.

Dean drags his boxer briefs and jeans back up over his hips then looks down at his ruined shirt and pokes at the creamy white stains stark on the dark blue fabric, making a face.

“It’s all over me, man,” Dean grumbles. Sam looks up from where he’s buttoning his jeans and despite his best efforts, he feels the corners of his mouth tugging up in a slow, smug grin.

Dean’s eyes narrow. Reaching over, he grabs a fistful of Sam’s shirt and reels him in – then triumphantly wipes his sticky hand on Sam’s shirt. Sam yelps, twisting away.

“What the _hell_ , Dean,” he says indignantly.

“You messed up my car, bitch,” Dean says, and he looks sated, fucked-out, lips pink and glistening wet and swollen from kissing. His spiky blond hair is a complete mess, sticking up every which way and there’s a large purple bruise forming on the golden skin just under his jaw in the exact shape of Sam’s mouth. Sam wants to get his hands all over him again, mark him up and mess him up even more, cover every inch of that smooth skin with bites and licks and kisses and wring filthy little moans and curses out of him; feels like he’s burning up with wanting it, like he’ll die if he doesn’t put his hands on Dean again.

“ _I_ messed up your car?” he mumbles, too preoccupied with staring at Dean to come up with any kind of clever retort.

Dean shrugs and grins up at Sam, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he’s so _gorgeous_ , expression so open and _happy_ that Sam just can’t resist anymore.

He moves in again, palms flat against the smooth, warm metal of the trunk, trapping Dean between him and the Impala. Dean tips his head up, clearly aiming for a cocky smile but looks too blissed-out to pull it off, lips still red and wet and those ridiculously long lashes lowered and he looks like he’s _begging_ to be kissed. Sam is more than happy to oblige, pressing in close all along Dean’s compact, muscled body, ducking his head to claim that tempting mouth.

When they part, Sam knows, _knows_ he’s got a ridiculously sappy grin on his face that Dean’s absolutely going to make fun of him for, but even that can’t dampen his mood one bit. He’s perfectly aware – has always been – that Dean loves him (even if his brother would probably rather swallow nails than actually _say_ so), puts him before pretty much anything and everything else, but a small selfish part of him – the same part that has him flinching and looking away whenever Dean picks someone up in a bar – has always helplessly craved that last part of Dean that he could never have, shouldn’t even have _wanted_.

Now he can admit to himself that he was jealous: jealous of the way his brother looked at the women – and men – that he flirted with, jealous of the way he smiled at them, touched them. He can hardly let himself believe that he’s allowed to have this, can have all of Dean, that Dean wants him the same way he wants Dean.

Sam can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it – about this thing between them; how ‘brothers’ doesn’t even _begin_ to define the bond between them, how Dean is _everything_ to him. Not when it makes joy bubble up in his chest, heady and effervescent, not when Dean’s smiling like Sam hasn’t seen in _years_ , relaxed and content.

Dean’s shuffled closer while Sam was lost in thought, and is squinting up at him. “Sam? You okay?”

“Never been better,” Sam assures him, and means it. He tugs Dean in, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

“What the fuck,” Dean mumbles into Sam’s chest, but doesn’t actually move away. “Why are you _snuggling_ me in a parking lot.”

Sam laughs and releases Dean before his brother can start to complain. “Would you rather I just bend you over the car again?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You talk big, Sammy,” he challenges, lips curving into a teasing smirk. “Better put your money where your mouth is and go get us a room.”

Sam blinks and looks around. He’d been too – preoccupied – when they’d pulled into the parking lot to take much notice of his surroundings, but now he realizes that they’re in the parking lot of the motel they’d stayed in last week when they’d been in Monterey. He gapes at his brother, scandalized.

“Dean!” he hisses, feeling himself flush. “Anyone could’ve walked out and seen us!”

“ _You’re_ the one who started taking our clothes off, man.” Dean grins at him lazily, shark-like, and Sam blushes even harder. Dean takes one look at him and starts to snicker, and Sam can’t help but laugh too, shoving playfully at his brother. Still chuckling, Dean hauls Sam in and kisses him dirty and wet with plenty of tongue, and Sam stops laughing abruptly, clutching hard at Dean and moaning into his mouth.

When Dean finally releases him, Sam practically trips over himself trying to get to the motel reception to get them a room. When he walks through the glass doors of the motel entrance, a blast of stale, cool air from the air-conditioning washing over him, the motel clerk looks up from the reception desk and a look of recognition passes over his face.

“Oh, it’s you again,” he says. His hand hovers over a key. “I can give you the same room as before, if you want.”

“Uh,” says Sam. “Um, actually – ”

“Two queens, same as last time, right?” the clerk adds. His voice trails off as he looks over Sam’s shoulder, and he blinks a couple of times. Sam turns.

Dean’s standing in the doorway, busily fiddling with the strap of Sam’s duffle, which he’s got slung over one shoulder. He’s got his own duffle slung over his other shoulder, and he’s clearly given up on his stained shirt as he’s taken it off and has it draped over the top of his bag. Dean’s bare chest is shiny with sweat, and there’s a line of mouth-shaped bruises forming all the way down the long smooth column of his neck. Okay, so Sam might’ve gotten a little carried away there.

“Uh,” says Sam again. His throat’s gone dry suddenly, and his entire face feels hot.

“…or not,” says the clerk. He picks up a different key. “A king it is.” Under his breath, he adds, in clear quotation marks, “ _‘brothers’_ , my ass.”

“Hey!” Dean says indignantly, coming up beside Sam. Sam shoots him a pointed look and very, very quietly steps on Dean’s foot.

“Ow!” Dean yelps, then meets Sam’s eyes and goes a little red. He turns back to the clerk. “Er, I mean. Thanks.”

He takes the key and marches off toward the stairs. Sam smiles and falls in step with him, curling one arm snugly around Dean’s waist.

 

End.

 


End file.
